The Best Friend I Never Met

We are on our way out of town after a steaming cup of Montreal (or should I say, cold and dreary?) Despite the one way streets, and my having mapped the drive backwards on Mapquest this morning, meaning from Burlington, Vermont, instead of to -- we find the highway and are on our way by about noon. 

Sadly, one minute we are on the highway, the next, driving through farmland. I'm not sure how it happened. I never really saw an exit sign. My gut tells me to keep driving in the direction we are heading, as I cling to the hope that "sud" in fact means south. As it turns out, the compass up my tookus is still working fine. 

Gram sees apple trees that look like the branches were grafted to grow toward the ground. It makes her think about my Aunt Victoria, who is responsible for about a third of the torment I experienced as a child. She scared the crap out of me, second only to her sister, Aunt Marie.

My mom was sick a lot, and in the hospital, so they would watch us. Both were extremely strict. I remember a time where Aunt Marie just about skinned me alive for sliding a glass of milk across the table. It spilled, she spanked.

Gram tells me about a story that involves my teeny tiny little brother, Ryan. It is one so embarrassing, I can't resist but repeat it here. Apparently, on one occasion where my mother was in the hospital, Aunt Victoria was watching us. I was in preschool, which puts my baby brother at about two or three. He refused to "go" when she put him on the potty in the morning. Aunt Tori, as my mom and uncle called her, got him washed up and dressed for the day.

Ryan proceeded to go downstairs and hide behind the curtains, and as Gram so eloquently puts it, "filled his pants."

(She pauses for dramatic effect.)

Apparently, this absolutely incensed Aunt Victoria. She called Gram, telling her that a child of his age should be able to go on the toilet. The next day, she sat him on the throne, and told him that she didn't care if he sat there until he was 16 -- he would not be getting up until he went. 

She went out and sat in the hallway. It took and hour, but apparently, the crotchety old woman scared the shit out of him. He did his business, and never had an accident in his pants again.

Gram says Mom, on the other hand, could not stand to have a messy diaper. Before she could even walk, she would crawl into the bathroom and bang on the toilet seat until someone would come and put her on it to go.

In all fairness, Grandma is scolding me for putting any of this on the blog. She says these are family secrets. 

What I remember about Aunt Tori is my last visit to see her, living with my grandparents, shortly before she passed. She was dying of cancer. She had three large tumors in her lungs, but they had her undergoing intense chemotherapy. Grandma convinced them to let her take her home. When I saw her, she pulled the wig off the top of her hear to expose the smooth crown of her bald scalp, laughing maniacally. Decidedly, still not endearing. She lived just a few short weeks after that, in terrible pain. Even the morphine didn't  help. My grandmother said she had one request: no grey casket. She hated that color. Gram got her a lovely pink casket with flowers. 

It's kind of a weird thing to remember, and maybe a weird thing to include here -- but these snippets are what tell the stories of our lives. I explain to Grandma that they aren't really secrets. They are the pieces of ourselves that make us human. The stories that, unless I record them now, won't be told again once she isn't here to tell them. 

And I, for one, love her stories -- poop and caskets included.

On the way into Canada, there was nobody in line going through the checkpoint. It took all of ten minutes, including getting some basic directions. The line back into the U.S., however, takes about 45 minutes. Grandma goes on and on about wanting to kiss the ground ... that there's no place like the United States. I find this ironic, since she's only been to Canada and Mexico. What does she have to compare it to? Plus, we were only gone for three damn days. It's not like she was in a POW camp while there, for cryeye (as she would say.)

Today we are headed to meet the woman I refer to as, "The Best Friend I Never Met." 

Sheri was an investor-owner in the condo in the building where I bought in Washington, D.C., in 2006. Things didn't seem right, and we first started communicating to discuss our concerns, staging a coup to take over management of the building in 2007. For the next year, we both cried to each other over what had happened, and the general state of the building. Not good is an understatement.

Over the years, we got to know one another ... learning about our lives, me in D.C., and her in Vermont. We supported each other at times when neither of us felt like we could deal with that horrible situation anymore. The predicament, and slowly digging out of it, lay the foundation for a very strong bond, which blossomed into a friendship. I feel like I've known Sheri, and now her partner, Jess, forever. Though I wouldn't say this of many people, I trust them implicitly. 

They must trust me, too, given that they have invited me and the white-haired axe murderer in my passenger seat to stay for a week at their lovely house near Burlington.

Since they aren't at home when we start getting close, Gram and I decide on a few detours. Two places promise crafts, hawking junk. Then, it's off to the winery down the road for a tasting ... and a casing (we leave with three bottles each, and Gram actually outspends me!) 

Then it's down this little rocky road that goes down to the riverfront and a gorgeous waterfall -- Fairfax Falls. It looks safe. It says it's access for day fishing, only closed from sunset to sunrise. I start down, confident, but as my tires are skidding and bumping along on the slick, sharp rocks, I begin to worry. The problem is, it is at a steep incline and backing up would be a treacherous option. We plow forward, get a great pic, and timidly make our way back up. 

I hate to think what my undercarriage looks like.

So then it's time. We head back to Sheri and Jess' place, and when I see my friend, whose face I know only from pictures, I squeal and give her a huge hug. When we get inside, Jess gets a turn, too. They are just darling, and instead of it feeling weird -- like it could, like you'd think it might be -- it's like we've known each other forever.